Subconcious Revision
by TheBlackParade
Summary: Sometimes the clarity of dreams is a reality in itself.


Title: Subconscious Revision

Summary: The clarity of dreams can sometimes be a reality in itself.

Author's Notes: Elements of both the film and classic literature will be wound together in this 'what if' story. Although I am myself a huge fan of the land of Narnia I had the wild idea to reality-base the whole thing as the unconscious dreams of a comatose Peter Pevensie. The story begins with him waking fully at last from his coma and resuming life without Narnia. If you are wanting the land in which Aslan runs among talking beasts I am afraid this tale has nothing to offer you.

Warnings: Future homosexuality (Peter/Caspian), possible mature elements, and very little of Jesus in either human or lion form.

**Prologue**

Peter Pevensie had come to believe himself forsaken by Aslan in every variation of his world. Like the angel Lucifer his pride had borne him to the lofts of heaven and then released him like a stone from the claws of the Griffons. Believing himself blessed he had been a man of solid self-esteem and peaceful soul for years of quiet aging back in his own world. Though Narnia had never ventured far from his heart he had come to be a cheerful and kind adolescent of earthly bounds. What had cast him from grace if not his comfort in himself and his place in the world? Aslan could not be this cruel, surely. Oh, but was his lack of faith the tempest itself? So many questions, so many questions unanswered.

It had begun some months before as dreams on the verge of waking. Glimmers of misplaced light and a distinct ache all throughout his body that would descend swift and brutal before vanishing with the blurred images adhered to it. Although the vague terrors instilled a dull fear in him, the young man often found himself comforted by the solidity of his bedding. But as the frequency increased to several times a week so too did the timing of the terrors invade a span of hours. He began experiencing them at school, walking the road on weekend release from his dormitory, at breakfast. Intensity also swelled and the images included phantom voices and heat. Was hell beckoning him like the churchman told?

Some weeks into the purgatory new bouts of that irresistible current he had always known as magic began to assail him like fell dogs feasting. His location began to flicker and he would find himself inexplicably somewhere else though always in his own world. One moment he sat in his desk for mathematics and the next he was stumbling across the stone floor of the belfry. Despite the maniac fear that now ruled his every hour, Peter couldn't seem to alert anyone to his peril. They either ignored him or seemed not to have missed him in the first place.

Even stranger, the contents of Britain itself seemed to rearrange. Buildings vanished to be replaced by fern groves. Items disappeared without explanation and wild animals began making regular appearances where they ought not to be. Bears dined in taverns that were once tea shops when seen from the corner of the eye. Once Peter turned toward them they would salute him, waver like mist, and resume being ordinary humans (though still in a medieval tavern).

All the while, still his pains and waking dreams marched on. Blades drawn, they attacked again and again with more clarity each time. He shivered in their presence and forced himself not to scream. Something drew near, he could sense it. How could it be that humankind noticed nothing amiss? Why did Susan simply frown and tell him not to be ridiculous when Peter informed her there was a fox draped over he shoulders? Man could not be this barmy. He was not the one who was mad. No, certainly not.

On the eleventh week of the passion it began to storm most dreadfully, weather reflecting force that the eldest Pevensie had only read about in news articles and textbooks. The day has become so dark that it was scarcely distinguishable from the night and the drum of the falling water so constant that people ceased to hear it. Yet England persevered as best it could in galoshes and good humor. When the buildings began to flood all activity was moved to the second stories and places lifted by hills. Sometimes it seemed there was a state of emergency and others not. Besides the rain, nothing seemed inclined to be constant.

After his sisters were carried away by water sitting down to a lamb supper in St. Finbarr's Peter could suffer no more. He fled the insanity of his fellow human beings and their strange misplaced animals to a Cathedral that, oddly, no one seemed to occupy. In the slick stone fortress of god the seventeen-year-old boy wept as long and hard as the sky. All his cleverness in book reading and Narnian survival had abandoned him to hell where the absence of Aslan reigned. No matter how loudly he cried out to the lion and the Jesus upon the cross there was not a single drop's difference in the downpour or the regular offenses of the magic tugging.

Never in all his years of adventure and battle in Narnia had Peter ever been this frightened and confused. He felt utterly alone in a world suddenly bereft of the laws he had known. Trust, faith, he should have clung to them but perhaps his heart was not so pure. The blood of Adam had run with sin and here he suffered in lonely grief. When the sky was a leaden gray that spoke of day the tugging became outright pulling, then dragging that seized his limbs and began to haul him across the frigid stone floor. Exhausted with his sorrows Peter finally ceased struggling and became limp in the grips of it.


End file.
